Revenge
by Huntress of the stars
Summary: A messed up modernized version of Hamlet.
1. Night Shift

_**Revenge**_

_Names of the Actors (with several omitted)_

Christopher Manser, CEO of Manser industries. (Claudius)

Charles Manser, son to the former, and nephew to the present CEO. (Hamlet)

Bernard Flenn, assistant to Christopher Manser. (Polonius)

Donnie Filligan, student, friend to Charles Manser. (Horatio)

Philip Kreks (Voltemand)

Eric Tren (Cornelius)

Richard Rosen (Rosencrantz)

Gilbert Francesco (Guildernstern)

Mark, security guard at Manser Ind. (Marcellus)

Carlos, security guard at Manser Ind. (Bernardo)

Frank, security guard at Manser Ind. (Francisco)

Kurtis Flenn, son to Bernard Flenn. (Laertes)

Richard, assistant to Bernard Flenn. (Reynaldo)

Actors.

Two clowns, gravediggers.

Matthew Kingsely, CEO of Kingsely Ind., a rival company. (Fortinbras)

Julianne Manser, wife to the former CEO of Manser Ind. and mother to Charles Manser. (Gertrude)

Clara Flenn, daughter to Bernard Flenn. (Ophelia)

Ghost of Charles Manser sr., Charles's father.

* * *

Chapter 1: Night Shift

The lights of the city blurred in and out of vision. There were the roars of airplane engines, the steady flow of cars, and the annoying rock music that kept blasting from the center of the city, where some popular band performed to thousands of screaming girls. In short, another boorish night shift at Manser Industries. Frank had been pacing the premises for the better part of three hours, and nothing had happened thus far. Not that he expected anything. But there was a part of him that hoped the ghost would return. Not that it _was_ a ghost, really. But though its silvery, fairytale glow gave the impression of something surreal, something imagined at the late night hour, Frank still believed it was. Then again, Frank _was_ a superstitious kind of guy. So as he paced his way through the dark, contemplating the existence of ghosts, you would imagine a sudden voice would scare him.

"Who's there?"

Frank stopped, whirled around to the voice behind him and turned on his flashlight.

"Carlos?"

"Yeah."

"Ah, finally. I'm tired."

"You seen anything?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary, just the noise from that band… what's its name… Yeah, nothing."

"Alright, 'night."

And so Frank left for a warm home with three sleeping children and a faithfully waiting wife. Carlos approached the two shadows before him and grinned.

"Hey, Mark. Donnie? That you?"

Donnie grunted, and didn't answer.

"So what's he doing here?" Carlos said.

"I brought him along to show him the ghost," Mark replied, "so he doesn't send us to an asylum."

"This better be quick," said Donnie, "I've got work early tomorrow."

"I thought you didn't work," said Carlos.

"I got a part-time job up at the Interlude."

"Funny, I can't imagine you in fancy clothes," Mark laughed and earned himself a whack in the head.

The three parted, Donnie sitting down and snoring against the wall and the two security guards pacing the premises as required. It was around three that anything actually happened.

"Donnie, wake up," someone poked his shoulder. He opened his eyes to a silver light, and, immediately waking, shouted.

"What the hell is that thing?"

"Shut up!" Carlos hissed, "It's the ghost."

They fell silent as the thing approached them, reaching out its arm and muttering something under its breath. It was a man, in the silvery form of something of air, empty but for some memory that kept him tied to the mortal earth. His eyes bulged at them, and he moved his mouth as if to say something, but was silent. Donnie stood up, and attempted to approach it. The man wore a suit. His beard, a deeper silver than his transparent skin, covered the short neck he craned at the three men. He opened his mouth again, and this time Donnie was sure he would speak. But just as a faint his of breath sounded from the ghost's lips, some unseen call stopped him short. He raised his head and closed his eyes, then, looking pointedly at the three men, turned and disappeared behind a corner of the building.

"I'm going after it," said Donnie, and ran after the thing, leaving Mark and Carlos before they had a chance to stop him.

He could see the ghost, running past the building's back doors, and followed it. For an old man, the thing was quick to find its place in the middle of the road. Donnie felt for the keys in his pocket and, finding his car in the virtually empty parking lot, backed out and drove to the ghost. The thing, having understood Donnie's logic, turned and continued his lead. They wound in and out of the main roads, through blocks and streets and alleys, until Donnie was dizzy from the entire chase. The ghost stopped suddenly, and just as Donnie braked his car and looked up to see what the ghost was pointing at, the sun began to rise. The thing just bowed its head a little, and pointed to its right, before the tiny rays of golden light shot through him and he faded into the early morning air. Confused, Donnie got out of his car and faced the building the ghost had pointed at. There, between two giant apartment buildings, stood a rather large and rather ancient-looking mansion, with steel fences and a fountain before the front doors, where two stone lions guarded the entrance to the Manser household.

* * *

Donnie picked up his phone at seven a.m., hoping to catch Charles awake. He did. His friend picked up the phone at the second ring.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's Donnie."

"Donnie? Hey, what's up?"

"That's the thing. I've got something important to tell you."

"What?"

"I uh… I stayed up with Mark and Carlos last night, and…"

"Holy shit, Donnie. Are you gay?"

"What? No, no! That's not what I meant. Listen, I stayed up with them during their night shift. Mark wanted to show me a ghost he and Carlos had seen a couple of nights ago. So I went with them, and the weirdest thing happened."  
"Yeah?"

"The ghost came. It looked just like your father."

"My father?"

"Yeah. And he almost said something to us, but then he turned and ran. So I followed him, in my car, and he led me to your house. I mean, the Manser house. He seemed troubled or something. I just thought you'd want to know. …Are you still there?"

"Wha -… I don't know what to say. Thanks for… he looked like my father?"

"Yeah, at least what I knew of him."

"And you say he's been appearing more than once?"

"Yeah, Carlos and Mark saw him twice before me."

"… Can you take me with you tonight? No, wait, tomorrow night? Please talk to Mark and Carlos for me."

"Sure, no problem. Around what time?"

"Near midnight."

"Are you alright?"

"… yeah."

"Alright, well, see you."

"Bye."

Charles put down the phone and stared out the window. His father? A ghost? What the hell was wrong with him? It couldn't be true! He heard his mother's footsteps behind him.

"Charlie, dear? You're up already?"

"Yes, mother," he answered without turning around.

She made a noise as if to speak again, but Christopher Manser was coming down the staircase.

"Well, good morning, Charlie," she said, and turned to join her husband as Charles glared out the window, the edge of the table clutched in his fist.


	2. Charles Manser Jr

_Chapter 2: Charles Manser Jr._

There had never been a greater turnout than for the party celebrating Christopher Manser's promotion. Everyone was there, everyone that mattered. And everything was as planned. The paid servers circled about, the bands played serene background music, and numerous uniformed waiters were setting the table. Platters of every imaginable meat, fruit and vegetable, salads ranging from the simplest to the most exquisite lay on the long table, awaiting the hungry guests. The hosts of the evening, Christopher and Julianne Manser, were entertaining a group of old men who, though seemingly dim, were quite important in the electronics industry.

Charles Manser Jr., the only child of Julianne and Charles Manser, skulked in his dark corner by the refreshment table. He had an empty glass clutched in his fist, the material threatening to snap under the pressure. His eyes roamed the great hall until they found those of his uncle, the host of the evening, none other than the great Christopher Manser. Yes, the very one who had been promoted to CEO of Manser industries following the most unfortunate death of Charles Manser Sr. The faithful son seemed to be the only one who believed the death had not been an accident, but most people just blamed it on the emotional shock of a father's passing. Weren't they the smart ones? Christopher looked away first, and Charles snorted.

Sighing, he put down his glass and stood up to stretch before resuming his seat. Of course, the very first person to find him in the crowd was Clara.

"Hey, Charlie," she said, and leaned in to give him a kiss. "Long time no see."

"Yeah," he replied, and she seated herself beside him, "Where've you been?"

"Oh, you know, this and that. Daddy's been wanting for me to return to school, but I think I can talk him out of it. Kurtis is going back, though. You know him, old geeky guy. So… how are you?"

He knew she was referring to his father's death, but Charles didn't feel like ruining her mood today.

"I'm alright – better now that you're here." She grinned and rewarded him with another kiss.

They spent the remainder of the evening together, until the bells rang for dinner, when Clara turned to him and said, "Do you really want to eat with the stuffy crowd?"

"No, not really," he replied with a smile. "Wanna get out of here?"

She grinned and he led the way to his car.

"Interlude?" he said, and she grinned.

"You read my mind."

* * *

Donnie cleared away another table, and returned to the kitchen, tip jingling in his pocket. He put down all the dirty dishes and gave the dishwasher boy a smirk, before turning and heading off to the next occupied table.

"What'll you have to drink?" he said automatically, before realizing who he was serving.

"Hey, Donnie," said Charles, and Donnie grinned.

"Charles! Good to finally see you."

"You didn't tell me why you were here."

"I came for the same reason you did."

"For my father's funeral? Or my mother's wedding?"

"Funeral. But I didn't miss the wedding, either."

"I see. Wanna join us?"

"Love to, but I've still got to work, you know. Besides, I think I should be leaving you lovebirds to your private dinner." Donnie winked and Clara laughed. Charles punched his friend on the shoulder.

"What drinks do you have?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Um… check the menu."

"I'll just have water, thanks." said Clara, and Donnie wrote it down.

"I'll have… ah, Clara, you know me better. You order."

Clara smiled at Charlie, and, not bothering to examine the menu, said, "Just give him his red wine."

Donnie nodded and, after running another glance over his friend and Clara, returned to the kitchen.

"Since when does Donnie work here?" said Clara, and Charlie shrugged.

"I think he's been working here every time he came back from school to see his mother. It's usually at long intervals at a time, 'cause he only comes when she gets really sick."

Clara laughed. Charlie turned to look out the window, and she took the moment to study him. The way his neck turned, its bones visible against his skin, towards the window, the way his mouth held a rigid line in solemn contemplation, the way his brow arched and lit in the fading light, the way his teeth were clenched behind the shut lips. His blue eyes seemed to look past whatever it was he saw out on the street, and she knew his thoughts were lingering again on his father. She reached out and touched his hand. Charlie turned and looked at her, and smiled. But she knew he was only smiling on the outside.

"What's wrong?" she asked, and he shook his head. "You can tell me."

"I… well, it's my father lately." He replied, and she marveled at his trust. She grasped his hand, and he looked down at it.

"I don't think it was an accident."

"Charlie, I – "

"Here you go!" Donnie said as he interrupted the beginnings of their heartfelt conversation and plopped down their drinks. Clara looked at Charlie, who was looking at her. He seemed vulnerable just then, at loss as to what to say. He looked at her, his eyes pleading for help. Clara nodded and gave his hand a squeeze before letting go and opening her menu.

"What'll you be eating?" said Donnie.

"I'll have the rib combo, a small portion please. And Charlie will have the steak and rice, well done."

Donnie wrote it down, looked up, smiled and returned to the kitchen again.

"… Charlie?" said Clara after a minute of looking into his eyes. He had been somewhere else, though she felt his presence in front of her, and his eyes piercing through hers. He returned at her words.

"Yes."

He didn't need to explain anything. Clara sighed as he grasped her hand.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I shouldn't have – "

"It's alright, Clara. I trust you."

He bent down and pressed his lips to the back of her hand, and she closed her eyes for a moment. She opened them again at the sound of his voice.

"He didn't die naturally, Clara. They found too much insulin in his blood. You know he was diabetic. But I don't think it was suicide."

She couldn't breathe. Charlie's father had been so kind, she had thought no one would hate him enough to murder. She believed every word Charlie said, because he had never lied to her. Not even when the most horrible things came up in her questions. He hid things from her, yes, but when she asked, he never lied.

"Who do you think did it?"

"I checked all the security cameras around his house. The only people to enter that day before the intake of insulin were me, my mother, and my uncle."

"Do you…"

"I wouldn't kill my father, Clara. Not even to get his fortune." His voice was suddenly cold, and he let go of her hand. There were traces of tears in his eyes.

"No, Charlie. No, I'd never accuse you of doing something like that. You can't kill, Charlie. You're too kind, and too intelligent. Charlie… please, listen to me."

He looked up and she reached out to stroke his cheek.

"I'd never do anything to hurt you, Charlie. I'd never accuse you of murder. Don't you trust me?"

"It couldn't have been my mother," he breathed, "she… she loved him too much."

"But your uncle is a good man. I don't think he'd…" she trailed off. He was looking through her eyes again.

"I'm sorry. I – I shouldn't have brought up such a painful subject."

He blinked, and for a moment she thought he might lean over and kiss her. Instead he studied her expression. Clara smiled, and traces of a smile appeared on his face.

"God, I love you," he breathed, and she leaned her forehead against his.

"Say that again."

"I love you."

"Hmm… feeling better now?"

"Much," he replied and kissed her briefly before returning to his upright position. Donnie returned with their dinners and the remainder of the evening was spent in the same spirit of love. Needless to say, he paid the bill.


	3. Encounters

Chapter 3: Encounters

Christopher woke at the sound of the door opening. He glanced beside him, and smiled at the sleeping Julianne. Pulling the sheets up to her chin, he stood and pulled on a bathrobe. Charles was seated at the kitchen counter, drinking milk.

"Good morning, son," said Christopher, and Charles turned around.

"Good morning."

Christopher sat in front of the boy, and tried to catch his gaze.

"Where were you tonight?"

"At Clara's."

"Sleep well?" Christopher asked, and Charles looked up. The look he gave his uncle was more than enough to let him know that he'd passed the limits of polite conversation.

"No," he said, and left the kitchen.

Christopher sat there awhile, contemplating his nephew's behaviour. It was obvious the boy had loved his father dearly, and that an uncle would never replace that love, but why would Charles act this way? The boy hadn't ever liked Christopher, but now that dislike was turned into such hate! What had he done to deserve dear Charlie's malice?

"Hello, sweetie," said Julianne as she snaked her hands around his neck from behind and gave his cheek a kiss.

"Hello," said Christopher absentmindedly, still shaking the thought of his brother. Julianne yawned, stretched and went to get the milk from the fridge, when she noticed the half-empty glass on the counter.

"Is this yours?" she picked it up.

"No. Charles came in earlier."

"Where was he?"

"Clara's."

Julianne grinned, and settled down to finish the remainder of Charles's milk.

"I'm so happy he's found himself a girl! I mean, all those years of girlfriends, on and off… It's just so good he's finally found someone he could settle down with!"

Christopher looked up.

"Do you really think…"

"Well, as far as I see it, they're in love. And love stops at nothing, does it?"

"…. Yes, I suppose." He replied, the thought of his brother returning again. Would it haunt him forever?

"So, what'll you have for breakfast?"

He shrugged.

"You know me best."

* * *

Clara was watching television when the phone rang. She turned down the volume and picked it up.

"Clara?"

"Yes, daddy?"

"Are you alone?"

"Yes, daddy. How else would I be?"

"I'm just checking. Did you have anyone over tonight?"

"No."

"I see."

"No, daddy, I'm serious! I had dinner, and then I came home, watched a movie, and went to sleep. As usual."

"… alright. Well, is everything fine? I didn't see you at dinner last night."

"Oh, I left when they called everyone in. Sorry about that."

"That doesn't seem like you. I didn't see the young Manser at dinner, either. Did you leave alone?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, daddy! Why would I lie to you?"

"Where did you go for dinner?"

"A friend's."

"Alright. I believe you. What are you doing today?"

"I don't know, I haven't decided. Has Kurtis left yet?"

"Not yet. He wanted to say goodbye to you before he did."

"Well, I'll probably be home all morning, so tell him to drop by. Is that all you wanted to say?"

"Yes. Bye, Clara."

"Bye, daddy."

She put down the phone and rolled her eyes. Just as she turned the volume up again, her doorbell rang. She groaned and turned off the TV, and opened the door, and admitted Charlie. It was odd in the first place that he had actually rang the doorbell. Hadn't she given him the keys a year ago? He didn't say anything; just looked at her, taking in every little detail of her eyes, reading her.

"Charlie? Are you ok?"

He didn't answer. She reached out, and he caught her hand.

"Charlie?"  
He backed away, letting go of her and not breaking eye contact until he was out of view. Clara slid on her slippers and followed him, but by the time she reached the elevator, he was already gone. She knew it was useless to follow him; he hadn't asked her to. And his gaze was a dying man's last.

* * *

He arrived at ten thirty. Frank was on his shift, so Charles spent some time walking about with him, discussing this and that. The man seemed to be deeply superstitious, and believed the ghost was a sign of the apocalypse or something. But he was an interesting guy; kept talking about the importance of family and love. Charles saw him as a bit of a hypocrite, carrying a gun when he spoke of love and eternal peace. But Frank had to get by somehow, and it _was_ a cruel world out there.

The way Frank described his wife, Charles got the impression of a black-haired Spanish beauty, a jewel from some world beyond mortal comprehension. Then again, Frank would laugh, maybe it _was_ just an illusion.

Mark and Carlos arrived some time after twelve. Donnie was there, too, somewhere behind the security guards, always glancing over his shoulder. Charles suppressed the urge to laugh. It seemed Donnie had become suddenly afraid of the night. No doubt he'd slept with the lights on after his ghost encounter.

"Well, goodbye," said Frank and shook hands with Charles. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

"Bye," said Charles, "Sleep well."

They didn't speak much for the next three or four hours. Donnie kept Charles company by the building, until he slumbered off. Charles couldn't sleep. He stood and paced awhile, checked the time, sat down again, and repeated the procedure almost a million times until at last, around seven a.m., it appeared. The men gathered to watch it. Donnie, having woken to the silver light, stood and joined them. Charles stepped forward.

"…dad?"

The ghost turned its head towards him, his gaze softening for a moment. It wet its lips and spoke.

"Son." Its voice was barely a whisper, a hiss that carried itself to the men. Maybe it was just the wind.

"Dad. Please, there's not much time." Charles stepped forward and the ghost stepped back.

"Follow me," the ghost hissed, his words rough and forced. Charles nodded, and followed without a word to the forgotten men that stayed behind. When the two were well out of the sights and sounds of the others, the ghost began.

"I don't have much time before the sun comes up, but I'll try to explain. I did not kill myself."

"I know, father. You never seemed to be suicidal."

"It was a murder. My brother slipped extra tablets into my glass."

"Your brother…"

"Yes, Charlie, my brother, your uncle."

"I… what… what will I do?"

"Take revenge, Charlie. For my sake."  
"But, father, I can't… they'll… I can't kill."

"You don't need to kill. Take revenge."

"Father?"

The ghost turned around at the rays threatening to spill from the horizon.

"Goodbye, Charlie."

And he turned to walk away, before fading into golden light. Charles just sat there until Donnie found him and cheered him enough for Charles to go home. No one questioned the brief conversation between father and son.

Charles stayed in his room for the remainder of the day, sometimes sitting by the window, sometimes reading in his bed, sometimes meditating in the soft armchair his mother had bought him.

There weren't many new thoughts in his head. He listened to his father's words over and over in his mind, until the lust for revenge had settled upon him and moulded a new desire. Revenge? He despised his uncle all the more, but he could not kill him. He wasn't capable of killing. He didn't even have a gun.


	4. A Question of Faith

Chapter 4: A Question of Faith

The early morning birds rose with the first rays of sunlight, and the first three beeps of Charles's alarm clock. He turned it off. He hadn't slept that night, just as he hadn't slept at all the night before. Only today he hadn't been waiting for a ghost; he had been contemplating revenge, in all its senses. Clara had called him twice, but he hadn't picked up the phone. Christopher had come into his room once to speak to him, but Charles didn't even look up. He knew that if he did, he would most likely strangle his uncle on the spot. His mother hadn't appeared.

He left his room at six thirty, hoping to catch some morning peace in the kitchen. After managing to swallow a breakfast, Charles grabbed his cell phone and wallet, and went out. He didn't really have an objective or a reason to wander downtown, but he did. He sat in a small French café Clara had shown him a while back, where beautiful girls would wink at him and he wouldn't even notice, and hot, steaming tea warmed his senses by the noisy streets. He took the subway to a park where fountains spurted waterfalls of blue water and sprinkled all about them with cool drops, and gardens swayed in the summer breeze, sending calming scents of flowers about the busy streets. He went to a theatre and bought two tickets to a play he'd wanted to see with Clara for a long time, a theatre with red cushioned chairs and velvet curtains, where every actor knew him by name and he would stand with Clara to cheer them on their talented ways. He skipped rocks from the boardwalk that led through the shallow parts of the lake, where the eternal horizon stretched and smiled at the white-sailed boats that searched their own limits. He visited his mother's favourite gallery, where impressionist paintings lined the cool blue walls, and crystal chandeliers lined the hallways that led from one artistic sanctuary to another. He walked along the main street and dropped pennies into the hats of half a dozen beggars, some sitting and smiling at the occasional kind heart, some playing beautiful tunes to the spirit of love, lost in the music. He looked into malls, bursting with vain teenage girls who giggled at the newest photographs of their celebrity loves, and painted their faces to find much-needed attention in a world that should have been their own. Charles walked up and down the streets, lost himself in books he took from chestnut shelves as he sat on cushioned sofas in the grand library, followed all the scents of all the flavours of life through the great breathing city, but he couldn't find peace. Not even the prettiest roses of beautiful bouquets, frozen in shop windows. Roses reminded him of his father's grave.

And of course, with his day of mindless wandering, Charles was bound to find himself in the cemetery. The immense stones of grey and green, standing, forgotten, in fields of death, waiting for a faithful visitor. And that's what it was, wasn't it? Life was nothing but a question of faith. Charles bent down by his father's grave, shuffling the rotting roses that lay beneath the grey stone.

"It's a beautiful day, isn't it?" he found himself muttering, half to himself, half to the corpse below. "Not a cloud in the sky. Don't you get tired sometimes, just lying there, only coming out at night? You didn't want to die. Why don't you just go on, go wherever it is you should go? I'll take care of it for you." Charles grasped a handful of loose petals and soil, and brought it up to his face. Grains crumbled and fell upon the grave, and the remaining rose juices wet the clenched soil with their dying aroma. He rocked back and forth awhile, not caring who saw him. He kneeled, placed the soil over the roses, and kissed the tombstone.

"I'll take care of it for you," he whispered. There were no tears.

* * *

The bright lights of the study went out with the closed shutters. Two black leather shoes stood by the entrance to the immense chamber, accompanied by the coat of a businessman. Their owner, the CEO of Manser Industries, sat by the light of a lamp and read, occasionally looking up to the door, which remained still and soundless. Sometimes there were steps in the hall, but no knocks. His peace was uninterrupted until the book lay open on his lap, his glasses askew, his mouth emitting soft snores in the dim chamber. As the CEO slept away, three maids on the third floor of the Manser house sat huddled in the empty closet of a once-important duke, gossiping in the place of work. And although they assumed that no one would listen in to their rather pointless conversation, they were wrong. Julianne Manser, the wife of the wealthy CEO, had come in to rest on the large sofa in the house's smallest sitting room. However, having heard hushed whispers, she could not help but listen. To the left of the sitting room window, a rather gloomy-looking cleaner swiped off the last bit of dirt from the windows of the corridor. He turned in his cleaning tools at the base of the Manser house, and, wiping the grime off his face, headed home. When he turned the corner of the second street, his car emitted a burst of smoke that caught an unsuspecting pedestrian puffing on a cigarette. The man looked up, sneezed, and grumbled something under his breath before grasping his suitcase and continuing up the main street. He passed the red light district, where he caught the gaze of a prostitute. Shrugging off the urge to sneeze, the man walked on. The girl watched him disappear into the city crowds and turned to catch the eyes of any other man who would pass. She tried to find the attention of a particularly handsome youth, who carried himself with great importance despite a casual choice of wear. She took note of his blond hair and reflective blue eyes, and stepped in his way. He blinked and muttered a quick, "sorry," seeming not to notice her. The young man, having other things on his mind, followed the stream of the crowd until he reached a certain building. There, he dug into his coat pocket for the keys, and pressed them into the locked door. Six storeys up, in a room with a view of the lake, Clara Flenn glanced out the window. 


	5. Complications

Chapter 5: Complications

There were moments when Christopher Manser doubted his own abilities, and this was one of them. Bernard Flenn had just called with a complaint that was completely outside of business. His daughter, Clara, had apparently been having an affair with Christopher's stepson. Yes, Christopher had known of this affair. Yes, he had neglected to inform Bernard. Yes, he was terribly sorry and would, to the best of his ability, try to inform him of such things in the future. After he put down the phone, Christopher sat in his armchair awhile before doing anything. Why was Charles still tied to him, if the boy despised him so? He supposed it wasn't something he could fix. But would Charles's future affairs still be tied to him? Would he still have to answer the angry people? Would he have to defend Charles until his death? Even if the boy grew out of such things, would he still have to answer for him? Christopher stood and paced. He understood that the boy had passed on to him now, and for the sake of his brother, he would have to defend the boy, no matter what. Of course, defense and love were two very different things.

When he finally left his meditation in the study, Christopher headed down the stairs to the main level, where the grand staircase, led him to a very frightened Julianne.

"My dear, I…"

He comforted her and she retold the story of the three maids and their conversation. One of them, apparently a former mistress of the junior CEO of Kingsely industries, had whispered that before they had broken up, he had disclosed to her a certain plan, which she had not remembered to its entirety. However, she did remember that it included some kind of truce with Manser industries. Then she remembered that the CEO died on the very day that the truce was to be agreed upon. A second maid turned the subject to the death of Charles Manser sr. Apparently, none of them thought it to be accidental, and, although one thought it had been suicide, the other two quietly announced their belief of murder. At this, of course, the three laughed and decided together that suicide was the best explanation. But they _did_ discuss the antics of Christopher Manser, the brother shadowed by the CEO's fame and fortune. It was said the man had wanted his brother's station for a very long time, and would stop at almost nothing to gain such a place. The third maid added a snide comment about his lust for his brother's wife, with whom it was said he had an affair before his brother's death. That was obviously preposterous, but it was fun to think of it. Julianne looked up from her hot tea and looked into the eyes of her new husband.

"They also said that if it _was_ a murder, you would have been the most likely to commit it, aside from Kingsely-related assassins." she said, and he started.

"My dear, there isn't any reason for me to have killed my brother."

"No, Chris, there is. I thought it over. You _did_ always want what he had. You wanted his fame and fortune, and you wanted me. You knew his position would most likely pass on to you after his death, and you might have been afraid that if he didn't die soon enough, you'd be too old to accept it. I'm not saying you did it, Chris. But think about it. Wouldn't it make sense?"

"Yes, Julie, it would, but then why would I have done it when I did?"

"Charlie checked the security tapes. The only people to enter the building on the morning of his death were me, you, and Charlie."

Christopher contemplated his position for a moment before speaking.

"You don't suppose Charlie…"

"No! No, Chris, it couldn't have been him. He loved his father too much."

"But think about it. Charles left him practically everything he had left. This house is his, according to the will, as is all the furniture and décor. He owns half the company, for goodness sake! Who wouldn't kill for such a fortune?"

Julianne sipped her tea and thought it over.

"You're right," she decided, "He could have done it. But then again, I could have, too."

* * *

There was a great dispute over the money left to Charles Manser jr. in the will of the late Mr. Manser. Half the committee voted to negotiate a compromise with the young man, whereas the other half placed forth a desire to strip the boy of his money on account of madness. Spies were set forth to follow Charles Manser jr. and record all doings without his knowing. It was obvious the boy did not wish to follow in the footsteps of his father, and therefore his money would not go towards the company, as it would have, surely, had the senior been alive. The boy should not have known of his constant pursuit, but Charles wasn't as thick as they assumed him to be. He knew of the spies following him on the second day after they were dispatched. The only place he could hide from them was at Clara's. Even there, they would disguise themselves as smokers by the doors and wait for him to exit. But they couldn't come up, lacking keys. Even when they managed to somehow scramble up to the correct floor, they had to patrol the hallway, and Charles had time to escape.

* * *

He came up to one of the spies one day. The man, a short buffoon with a cigarette tucked behind his trembling ear, looked up at Charles.

"Why are you following me?" the target asked, holding the spy by his collar.

"I… I'm not… not following you, s-sir…"

"Oh, really?" Charles held a small pocketknife to the man's throat. "Maybe this'll help."

"T-they want me to prove you mad, s-sir… so they could get money, or something like that. Look, sir… I don't really know why I'm doing this – all I know 's that I get paid. Please, s-sir…"

Charles, relieved of the weak spy, dropped the man and turned down the hall.

* * *

At the Manser house, spies took the form of his uncle, ever looking over Charles's shoulder, reading into his books, watching what he watched on television. The only proof of madness they received came from his attempts of confrontation. He didn't trust anyone he had known to love him but Clara, with whom he stayed for a month until he realized that no plan could be put forth until his trap was set to motion. He explained to Clara that even though he knew their basic intentions, he couldn't plan a trap of his own until they began to suck the money out of him, however they wished to do that. Thus Charles became officially insane. He began to walk strangely, constantly glancing over his shoulder, talk too loud or too quiet, have outbursts of anger or happiness at the most unexpected moments. After another week of following him, the spies, content with their confirmations, returned to the council and showed all photographs, video and audiotapes that proved their findings. The council, pleased with the conclusion, set Charles Manser jr. down as mad in their files, and thus sent countless lawyers to dog him about the city. The boy, however, ignored them utterly, along with the Flenn girl, who, by his side, seemed to be just as mad.

_This_ development, of course, found the furious ears of Bernard Flenn, who immediately phoned Christopher Manser and settled into another multi-houred discussion of Charles's affairs. The conclusion they came to was that the Flenn and Manser children were to be separated, for Charles had a rather negative effect on Bernard's daughter. Christopher agreed to it. Clara was Charles's last line of defense. Break it down, and he had the kid cornered.

He put down the phone and raised it to his ear again, dialing the number of his personal legion of bodyguards.

"Hello? Yes, this is Christopher Manser."

* * *

Clara and Charlie were enjoying a beautifully gray day in the fountain garden, watching the green leaves sway in their new coats of mid-August heat. The few birds that settled in the heart of the city sang their songs, and the fountains sprayed Charlie and Clara in a cool shower of blue. They were sitting on a bench in the flower trail when Charlie's phone rang. He picked it up, but there was no one there.

"What's wrong?" Clara asked, and Charlie shook his head.

"Battery must have run out or something."

As he checked all possible reasons for this, two burly men came up from both sides of the road. Clara saw them first.

"Charlie," she said, and he looked up. Dropping his cell phone, he grabbed Clara's hand and led her through the nearest flowerbed, to another trail. From there, they made their way to the road, glancing back occasionally to find that two cars had replaced the burly men.

They ran through alleys and climbed over fences, but in the end, the men caught up. One took out his gun and the other approached them. Without a word, he grabbed Clara by the wrist. Charlie ran at the man and attempted to knock him out, but the second one caught him and threw him to the ground. Clara screamed and clawed at the man holding her, but he paid no attention. The man with the gun kicked Charlie until he was limp. Then, he picked up the boy and threw him over his shoulder, and put the victim in the backseat of one of the cars. Clara screamed again, but was silenced with a hit to the stomach, which made her sputter for air. She remained silent as they placed her in the second car and drove the two in opposite directions.


	6. Resistance

Chapter 6: Resistance

"You're awake, then?" a voice said. Charles opened his eyes to darkness. He heard a shuffle to near him.

"I guess we can begin." His arms and legs were bound to a reclining chair; a cheap plastic thing he'd only assumed the feel of. The man beside him caused a stir in the air, and another figure shifted in the dark.

"I suppose you want to know why you're here," the voice said. Charles didn't answer.

"Come now. You can speak, go on."

Charles closed his eyes and tried to gather his memories. He didn't remember anything but darkness, but before the dark was light… And Clara's terror.

"Where is Clara?"

"The girl?" a second voice laughed, "Don't worry about her. She's fine."

"What did you do to her?"

"She's fine, Charles. Lay off the subject."

Charles put his head back down on the chair, and focused his thoughts on his situation. Tied to a chair? These men were obviously not his friends. Why would they do this to him? He assumed his uncle had a share of the blame. But Clara?

"Let's get to the point, Charles. There was a little skirmish with the council. You see, old Manser left you a great deal of money. But you're not in the perfect condition to keep that money, understand? Because we've had spies following you awhile, and they've got evidence that you're not in your right mind. Now, we'll let you go, but you're not telling anyone, alright?"

"Why tie me up, then? Why knock me out and threaten me here?"

"Mr. Flenn does not like his daughter associating with madmen. We're terribly sorry for this development, but there's nothing we can do. Now, do you promise to keep quiet?"

"What'll you do if I talk?"

"Do we even need go there?"

Charles shook his head.

"No association with the Flenn girl, Charles. Got that?"

They waited a half-hour before letting him go.

* * *

"Daddy, really, you didn't have to do it." Clara murmured to her pacing father.

"Yes, Clara, yes I did. Do you know _what_ your association with Charles has already done to the Flenn reputation? Your brother and I have been working like mules for longer than you've been alive. And what do you give us? An affair with a madman?"

"Daddy…"

"No, no, I understand that you had something for the boy, but you'll get over it. I don't want you seeing Charles Manser Junior. We have a name to uphold. You want that name, don't you? God, Clara! Why can't you love who I want you to love?"

Clara stood, her head bowed.

"I don't think that's the way it works, daddy." When she took a step, her stomach lurched and she fell to her knees. Bernard stared at her.

"How hard did they hit you?"

"I'm fine."

But he only repeated himself. When Clara left the room, Bernard collapsed on the floor, weeping. There had been a time once, he recalled, when he had cried as much as he did now, but the cause then had been far greater. But this? Why was crying over _this_? It was just an affair he had to break up.

He hadn't wanted them to hit her. He'd wanted it to be painless, quiet. Without a fight. But maybe he didn't know Clara as well as he'd thought. The man that had brought her said they'd just knocked her out, that if they hadn't, she'd scream and bite, and resist.

Wasn't _resistance_ something Bernard had tried to instill into his children? And now, here he was, breaking down his own barriers. He knew Charles wasn't insane, and Clara knew it, too. But there were some things that had never been meant to be, and he was simply setting it right.

But why did the tears flow?

* * *

It was too simple. The only defense left in his opponent's war was a name. What good would a name do? It wasn't anything he couldn't handle. Christopher Manser had defeated far more than such petty things. Yet somehow, it didn't feel right. After all he'd done? But war was war.

"Yes, I suppose I can."

"Good. Arrangements have been made." The short man was positively squirming in his seat. Christopher pasted on a smile and stood to shake his hand.

"Please, feel free to call me any time." He said, and the man grinned.

"Thank you, Mr. Manser. Thank you."

"No worries." And the idiot left.

Christopher was alone. The ticking of the clock resounded through his room like the beat of his guilty heart. He sat down, and the creaking of his chair startled him. His computer's constant buzz wore into the air. He didn't move.

There was a knock at the door.

"Mr. Manser? I'm sorry, Mr. Manser. There's uh… someone here to see you. It's…. urgent."

Christopher sighed and straightened his posture.

"Bring them in; I have a minute."

The door opened. It took Christopher several seconds to recognize his nephew. The boy limped to the chair facing Christopher's, and sat down. His forehead sported a patch, beneath which there seemed to be a great injury. When Charles grasped his hand, Christopher felt rough skin and fresh wounds. He couldn't know. He couldn't possibly know.

"Charles... What happened?" But the boy smirked. He was strangely calm.

"Don't play the fool with me, uncle."

"What happened?"

"Those were your men."  
"What're you talking about? Are you alright?"

"Don't worry about me. You went too far this time. Those men may have kicked the shit out of me, and I don't care. But you…" Charles raised his index finger in warning, "You lay one finger on Clara, and I won't get off you until you're completely ruined. Understand?"

"I don't understand. What happened?"

"Your men caught up with Clara and me. It seems like they were under orders to split us up. With all necessary force. You gave that instruction, didn't you? Don't act innocent, I know it was you. You can beat me all you want, uncle. Kill me – does it look like I care? But not Clara. You keep her out of this. This is our war, between you and me. You leave Clara sane, alright? Do that, and maybe I'll have some mercy on you."

"Charles, this is a big misunderstanding."

"Good. I'm glad you understand what you did. Glad you acknowledge it. Maybe you're just an idiot, after all."

"Listen, Charles – "

"No, you listen. Here's the deal. You lay off Clara, I lay off your case. Take my money. I don't need it. But you're not gonna take my mother. You're not gonna take my name. And you're _not_ gonna take away my father."

"Of course. I'd never do that."

"Yes, yes you would. Don't deny it. I don't deny my faults. My father didn't deny his. Did he, uncle?"

"…no. He was a good man."

"He was a good man, yes. And do you want to live up to your good brother?"

"I do. Charles, look, I'm sorry. I know your father's death was a great shock to you. But… you know, your father lost his father, too. Life moves on. We have to keep going."

Charles stood and smiled.

"You think this is about my father? No, uncle. But there's a lot of wrong out there, and I'll make you pay for what you've done." With that, he turned and left, leaving Christopher in his silence once again.

Somehow, he didn't think Charles had meant the guards' attack.

* * *

Donnie was wiping another table at the Interlude when he noticed the sad and lonely figure in a corner seat. He was more or less surprised to find Clara weeping her eyes out, alone. Donnie sat down in front of her.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked. Clara shook her head.

"What's wrong?" Again, she shook her head, and the tears flowed. Donnie fetched her a glass of water.

"It's on the house." She didn't touch it.

"Where's Charles?" She calmed down.

"They're keeping him away from me."

"What? Who's _they_?"

"My father, his father… their men."

"What do you mean?" Donnie was leaning towards her over the table. She had really pretty eyes – no wonder Charles got so lost in them. Trusting eyes. Clara leaned back, and told him.

"So you can't find him."

"I just want to know that he's alright," she replied.

"You're miserable. I'll help you – they're not looking out for me, are they?"

"Tell him… everything."

"Everything?"

"Yes."

Donnie stood and nodded.

"My shift ends in an hour. I'll visit him then. You sure you'll be alright?"

"Thank you, yes."

Clara sat awhile longer, then left. Donnie watched her receding figure and sighed. Now he'd have to play rebounding messenger between the two.

* * *

When his shift ended at six, Donnie left his waiter uniform and headed to Charles's mansion. His friend opened the door at the second ring. It was almost as if he'd been waiting for someone. But when he saw Donnie, Charles let out a tremendous sigh. Was it agony? He turned around and headed back.

"Come in, close the door."

Donnie did so, and sat down at Charles's table.

"Are you okay?" said Donnie.

"It's a long story."

"Yeah, I know. I ran into Clara today."

"Clara?" Charles straightened at the name, suddenly alert. "Where?"

"She was by the Interlude. Broken down. Crying so hard I though the place would flood."

"How is she?"

"She told me about your run-in with the guards. Not a dumb girl, you know. Understands it all."

"Is she hurt?"

"Not physically. At least, that's not what's bothering her. She's desperate to see you. Just like you want to see her, huh?"

"What did she say?"

"She wanted me to tell you everything."

Charles smirked. "Everything."

"What's that mean, anyway?"

"Nothing."

"Inside joke?"

"No. Not really."

Donnie nodded. "You okay? Look a bit bruised up there."

"It looks worse than it feels. I had a few stitches on my leg, and my head's pulsing. Nothing that I can't handle."

"You're desperate."

"How perceptive."

"Where's your uncle?"

"Out."

"Your mother?"

"Upstairs."

"Clara's a great girl, you know."

"I know."

"You're dying."

"I need to get out of this. I need… You and Clara are all I have now, and Flenn's trying to deny me her. I won't let him to that."

"And I suppose I'm going to help you."

"Thank you for volunteering."

"Anything for a miserable friend in need."


End file.
